


From this Day forward

by Elaine27



Series: Out of Time [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Gen, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:10:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6170380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elaine27/pseuds/Elaine27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A letter has arrived, demanding Mycroft and his father travel to Edinburgh as soon as possible. Knowing deep down what it means and unable to sleep, Mycroft tries to distract himself in his study. It is here, hunched over paperwork, that his mother finds him. She's had four weeks to think about their conversation back at the Winter Ball and has come to a decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Ring to Keep Close

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fourth part of the Historical Mystrade AU Series [Out of Time](http://archiveofourown.org/series/409434) and will have three chapters. Part two will be about Mycroft's time in Edinburgh and part three will feature Greg again (and a heavy dose of angst and fluff).
> 
> Lots of thanks to my awesome beta [ivefoundmygoldfish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish) who cleaned up this mess and leaves the most encouraging comments!

  
_"We had nothing to lose and lost it anyway…"  
_ \- Joy Harjo

 

_(three weeks later)_

_February_

The sun had set hours ago, but Mycroft still sat hunched over the desk in his study, pen flying over the paper, filling it with his neat handwriting. Just behind the double doors at the end of the hallway outside his study, his rooms tempted him, but he didn't dare retire for bed just yet. He would be greeted by his already packed luggage, ready to accompany him to Edinburgh tomorrow morning – a prominent reminder that his business trip would keep him from London for an indefinite time. It took all his willpower not to seek out a certain flat tonight, knowing he wouldn't be able to return in the morning or during the night without getting spotted by servants and guards preparing the mansion for the imminent departure of his father and himself. The call to Scotland had come on short notice – just this morning – and had immediately received high priority. Thus the entire Holmes household had been in a bit of a rush to reorganise their schedules for the time of absence of the two heads of the house.

Mycroft especially had been surprised. The sudden turn of events had only given him enough time to send a short encrypted note to Gregory telling him not to expect a visit in the near future. It had been short and too formal for Mycroft's taste, but safety came before his heart's desires. Gregory hadn't replied, firstly because a day was little time to form a proper response, and secondly, because having Mycroft receive said reply without drawing attention demanded long and cautious preparation. The silence lay heavy on his heart, though. Thus Mycroft worked and completed tasks that weren't due any time soon, but that distracted his mind from other, darker thoughts.

His attempt at distraction seemed to have worked, if not scarcely, as he only became aware of another presence in the room when the door shut with a soft click. The familiar perfume preceded its owner, and Mycroft knew whom it belonged to without turning. After all, the chances his mother would let him go without bringing up their conversation in the library four weeks ago had been very slim from the start.

“I thought a lot about what you told me at the library,” Violet spoke up softly from behind him. She had yet to cross the distance to his desk, therefore purposefully giving her son a bit of room to gather his thoughts.

Mycroft sighed, silently preparing himself for the fierce lecture or pitiful speech to come. He wasn't sure what would be worse; her telling him to refrain from whatever he was engaging in or offering empty words of encouragement. His mother was no doubt a very gentle and caring mother, and a good woman, but Mycroft wouldn't hold it against her if she decided to do the former. His moment of weakness had proved most unfortunate and now he greatly regretted having lost his control back at the ball. The burden he carried wasn't his to share, least of all with his mother. She already worried enough about her two sons' well-being without having to shoulder the knowledge of Mycroft's unfortunate love-life.

Caught up in pondering her motives, Mycroft failed to notice her step up to his desk, and looked up in confusion when she held out her hand before his face. Nestled in her palm was a delicate ring that sparkled in the dim candlelight. It was made out of three entwined threads of gold with one round sapphire and two emeralds nestled between. Why she held it out to him, however, was beyond him.

He looked up at her, bewildered. “What are you doing?”

“It's my engagement ring,” Violet answered nonchalantly. She twirled it between her fingers twice before placing it on top of Mycroft's desk, successfully preventing him from ignoring her in favour of continuing his work.

“I know,” Mycroft said, still confused. His eyes were fixed on the ring on his desk, as if looking at it long enough would cause it to spill its secrets. Or disappear. “But why?”

“Your father offered it to me in exchange many years ago.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Well, my heart of course,” Violet said cheerfully, taking note of and purposefully ignoring Mycroft's growing puzzlement. “Take it, I have no use for it now. I prefer knowing it in your hands than doomed to gather dust in my drawer, nestled between forgotten jewellery.”

“But...” Mycroft hesitated, uncertain what the gesture meant. “Surely, it is of sentimental value to you.”

Violet smiled knowingly. “Of course it is. That's why I'm handing it over to you, Mycroft.”

She picked the ring up once more, inspected it with a wistful smile and passed it on to her son. Mycroft took it hesitantly, hands moving with the greatest care, fearful that he might drop or break it. Unsure how to proceed, he held it on his outstretched hand and simply admired the elegant delicacy and skilled handicraft. The ring was doubtlessly worth a fortune and unique in its appearance, but not too conspicuous and opulent to draw too much attention. Instead it showed taste and a fondness for simple beauty. The perfect ring for his mother and thereby a thoughtful gift from his father. No doubt Siger Holmes had spent many sleepless nights in search for this perfect token of love and affection.

Pondering the purpose of it, Mycroft realised with growing discomfort what it implied.

“Mother, I...” His tongue felt too heavy in his mouth. “Thank you for this generous gift, I appreciate it greatly and am honoured that you trust me with its keeping. But I cannot accept it.”

Violet's smile didn't falter. “Why not?”

Mycroft swallowed. “Considering our recent conversation, I am afraid your motivation for handing me your engagement ring is sadly misplaced. I believe your faith might be better placed in Sherlock and he should therefore be the one to receive this gift.”

“I do not believe that to be true.” Confident in her decision, Violet ventured on. “The last four weeks have given me enough time to contemplate my offer.”

“Then you are mistaken,” Mycroft objected resolutely. He was sure she'd drawn the wrong conclusion and would be bitterly disappointed to find him unable to fulfil her request. “I do not intend to use this ring for its original purpose in the near future, no matter what your wishes may be.”

Surprised, Violet raised an elegant eyebrow and studied her son's face. She must have found something in his carefully crafted mask of indifference, for she sighed softly and pulled over a chair to sit. Her long legs crossed beneath her elegant blue dress, Violet placed her right elbow on the desk and rested her chin in her hand. Her blue eyes were piercing and reminded Mycroft of his mother's intelligence. “And what do you think my wishes to be?”

“A married son, a trustworthy daughter-in-law and an heir to the family,” Mycroft answered instantly. His voice had taken on a bitter tone and he looked away, ashamed of his slip of control four weeks ago as well as now, and ashamed of his inability to follow his parents' wishes. “I can assure you I cannot and will not give you any of these things.”

“And yet, I'll give it to you. Not Sherlock, not anyone else, but you.”

“I don't understand.”

“That's because you don't listen,” she chided him fondly. It made Mycroft feel like a child again, barely five years old, when there were still things that exceeded the capacity of his mind. The experience was both thrilling and frightening, and Mycroft was torn between the urge to understand or run away as fast as possible.

The latter became improbable when his mother covered his hands, glowing pale in the dim light, with her own and urged him to meet her gaze.

When he focused on a point to the right of her face instead, she sighed a soft "Mycroft" and waited patiently until her son had built up his courage. As their eyes finally met, the worry and uncertainty in his were clearly visible, and Violet decided she'd seen that look far too often these past weeks. It was high time to change that.

"Mycroft," Violet began, softly squeezing his hands that were still holding the ring. "I do not know the complete magnitude of your current dilemma, nor will I pretend to understand the complexity of your emotions. But know that the degree to which you have pledged your heart to an impossible cause is not mine to estimate or condemn and I will under no circumstances think less of you for it."

Mycroft didn't respond. Hope and weariness were battling for control on his face. Having her approval turned out to be more of a need than he'd anticipated and the rush of relief coursed through his veins. Painfully sudden in its appearance, but sweet and more than welcome in its flow. Savouring the feeling, Mycroft closed his eyes and let his shoulders relax. The prospect of his imminent departure weighed a lot less now.

"This ring is not meant to pressure you,” Violet continued, “for I have no desire to see you unhappy in a relationship which you considered purely to please me. Instead, see it as a reassurance. A sign of my love and trust and my belief in you. Whatever your use for this ring, I'm convinced it'll be wisely considered."

"So you do not necessarily expect me to keep it, even though the recipient might stay unknown to you?"

"Yes, it's yours now and thereby yours to give. I only ask that you do not return it, but give it after your heart's desires."

She smiled and Mycroft couldn't help but smile back, albeit tentatively. After giving his hand a last squeeze, Violet pulled back and stood up. Mycroft nodded absently and carefully slipped the ring into his pocket before rearranging the papers on his desk.

Observant as ever, is mother, of course, saw. “Do try to catch some sleep, Mycroft. A long journey awaits you tomorrow, and I know for a fact that those documents can wait until you get back.”

With that, she left, leaving behind the subtle traces of her perfume and the light pressure of solid metal against his chest. It was barely there, but enough to have him lay aside his pen and stack the papers in a neat pile. The candles were blown out soon after and when Mycroft finally closed his eyes, feeling the soft sheets against his skin, his sleep was dreamless.


	2. Long Way Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the slow update, I have finally passed my pre-exams and am now anxiously awaiting the real exams, therefore my free time has been cut quite short.
> 
> This second chapter is a bit more of a fill-in, but necessary in order to make the third chapter (which this is all about) understandable.
> 
> Hugs and kisses to [ivefoundmygoldfish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish), who has, again, struggled her way through grammar mistakes and spelling disasters!

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
_"If you’ve been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you - you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing was ever going to happen again."  
_ \- C. S. Lewis, _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_

 

_February_

 

The journey was long and exhausting, the roads muddy and less than pleasant to travel on after they changed from train to carriage. February was nearing its end and the grey winter was withdrawing, slowly but gradually replaced by the sluggish pale green of early spring. White fields of snow melted bit by bit, leaving the ground sated with water. By the time they neared Scottish land, there wasn't a single white spot left.

His father, worried for his brother's health and tired himself, had mainly left him to his thoughts. Dark and ominous as they were, Mycroft wasn't sure that was a good thing, but relieved nonetheless. Only a few hours left until they arrived, after four long days of constant travelling.

Mycroft absently clutched the expensive stationery in his hands, gaze focused beyond the carriage. The paper was crumpled and worn from constant abuse, and his fingers had left slightly greasy spots on the elegant curve of his name written across the front of the envelope.

Inside, on the equally expensive paper, the words still hadn't changed. He'd memorised them long ago, but the firm papery feeling helped ground him in a way thoughts could not. No matter how often Mycroft read them again, their meaning remained the same, as did their consequences.

Plain and simple. Not more than a handful of lines that held little meaning to an outside viewer. Clearly a precaution, should it fall into unwanted hands.

 

 

 

>   
>  _Sir Mycroft Holmes,_  
>  _You are hereby summoned to Greenwoods Castle to assist as temporary substitute for your uncle, Sir Edward Holmes. Due to unforeseen circumstances, he is unable to continue a negotiation of great delicacy. Since you are named as his successor, you are to leave at once to fill his place._
> 
> _Sincerely_

 

  
The absence of a signature was no surprise. It wasn't needed, since the number of people who knew of his family's doings was quite small. Mycroft estimated the time it took to send a telegram from Greenwoods Castle to Buckingham Palace and have the letter delivered to his address, and assumed his uncle's condition had arisen not sooner than six days ago. Seven, if they'd waited a day for improvement.

"Did it provide further insight concerning what is to happen after our return?" his father had asked once, while they sat face to face in the train compartment, in the morning of their second day of travelling.

With a lot of effort, Mycroft had torn his gaze away to face his father. Siger Holmes had not met his eye, but unlike his two sons, he wore his heart on his sleeve. Although more 'normal' in matters of intelligence, he was by far not ignorant. His heart, Mycroft had noted—not for the first time—was just as soft as that of his mother.

“No,” Mycroft had replied, plain and simple. However, the sagging of his father's shoulders had induced him to elaborate further. “I am sure that should uncle Edward's condition be critical, the message would have mentioned as such.”

“That is not what I meant.”

He knew then, Mycroft had thought wearily. Had he truly advertised his reluctance so freely? Or had his mother confined in her husband concerning their son's matters of the heart? Hopefully not. He wasn't ready for that discussion yet, not that he ever expected to be.

“Listen,” his father had said, as Mycroft had failed to reply. “I know this is difficult for you, and that you did not expect to be called in so soon. But however this turns out, I have no doubt you will meet and exceed all that is demanded of you in the future.”

And that had been that. If anything, Mycroft hadn't felt and still didn't feel any better. A bit reassured perhaps, yes, but the finality of what would inevitably happen weighed at his heart. Sooner or later, the day of saying goodbye would arrive, despite Mycroft's wishes. And as it stood, sooner was far more likely.

~

They had barely passed the gates when two servants emerged. One promised to show Siger to his brother's chambers once he'd moved into his rooms and took his luggage. When Mycroft was about to follow, the second servant stopped him, saying he was needed immediately. With a resigned sigh, Mycroft abandoned his luggage and obeyed.

What followed was a long, dreadful evening filled with nothing but the most boring and delicate discussions. Apparently, the six day break the delegates had been forced to take hadn't mixed up their time schedules at all, therefore no one was in a great hurry to reach an agreement. When Mycroft finally left his place on the long table that first night, nothing had been accomplished, and he realised with dread that his return wouldn't be possible after just a week. A month would be more likely, depending on whether or not further travelling would be necessary.

Over the next days, Mycroft spent his time in and out of negotiations. To his amazement, people of power were just as easily manipulated as common men, and as the hours passed, more disagreements were settled in his favour than not.

After so many years of training for exactly this moment, the demands of his job came easy to Mycroft. Without thinking, he became the cold, inscrutable man who'd accompanied him every step of his adolescence. A carefully and flawlessly crafted mask, yes, but a mask nonetheless.

Although he didn't see his uncle for the first week, his uncle's personal assistant Sir Nicolas Ledford introduced him to the political situation at hand and kept him informed during the heated discussions, always lingering in the shadows behind him. Through him, Mycroft was able to maintain contact with the Buckingham Palace and inform his mother of the extension of their stay until his uncle was fit for travelling again.

And so time passed by, agonisingly slow at times and frighteningly fast at others.

Well into the third week, Mycroft found himself sitting at dinner with Sir Ledford, his father and, surprisingly, also his uncle. Edward Holmes had taken to having his food brought to his bedroom so far, and Mycroft had not expected him to join them tonight. He still looked quite pale, a bit older than when he'd last visited Mycroft's family's estate, but healthier than most people looked after a heart attack. Both in physical and mental form.

"It seems that my health will fully recover," Edward informed Mycroft of what Siger had already told him. However, the next words came as a surprise. Or perhaps not. "But it has become apparent that my health will continue to suffer should I shoulder my current responsibilities any longer."

Mycroft could only nod mutely, having figured as much as the days of his uncle's isolation had trickled by. However, up to this point he'd still hoped against all reason that he was wrong and his uncle would not yet lay down his duties, giving Mycroft a few years before the inevitable would happen. What foolish hope. He'd deceived himself. His appetite gone, Mycroft stared at the spoon in his hand, hovering halfway to his mouth, and lowered it again.

"Nicolas told me that you have managed very well on your own, Mycroft,” his uncle continued, oblivious to Mycroft's reaction. “It pleases me to know that my leave will offer room for an even greater mind to develop."

"Please, uncle, you underestimate your importance."

Edward picked up his wine glass and toasted to Mycroft's father, a pleased smile on his face. "And humble, too; I am sure you will do splendidly."

"What changes must I ready myself for?" While Mycroft had been schooled in politics, geography and history, the day-to-day life of his future job had never truly come up. What little he knew, he'd learnt by observing his uncle whenever they met.

"Your personal security will increase," Sir Ledford, who'd followed the discussion with great interest, explained. "One personal guard will be assigned for your constant protection and another delegation will be appointed for your family’s safety."

Mycroft's heart faltered for a second, before increasing in speed. All colour left his face. "Even at night?"

He'd noticed the inconspicuous handful of men stationed around the perimeter, and the tall man outside his uncle's chambers who was currently hovering beyond the double doors to the dining room. Thus far, however, Mycroft had pushed them to the back of his mind. Refusing to acknowledge what, deep down, he'd known all along.

"Especially at night," his uncle confirmed and turned his attention to his dessert.

Gaze fixed firmly on his still half-full plate, Mycroft said nothing, all his attention focused on how to breathe.

_Never again._

He could feel his father's eyes studying him from the seat opposite his, but Siger Holmes kept his thoughts to himself.

Nicolas, though, had noticed his reaction. "Are you concerned for your protection?"

It took Mycroft a moment to make out the words over the rushing in his ears, before he pressed out, "No. No, not at all.” He swallowed. “I was just wondering…"

_Never again._

Mycroft struggled for words, too distracted by the chaos in his head. There was no way his nightly escapes would go unnoticed with a constant bodyguard. He'd never, ever be able to set foot into Gregory's apartment again. His heart turned cold at the thought.

_Never, ever again._

The silence continued, stretching out like a dark void. Just when Mycroft was sure he'd have to leave, his stomach a painful twist, his father spoke for the first time that night.

“Not immediately though, am I correct, brother?” Siger Holmes said.

Hope, treacherous and bittersweet clawed its way through Mycroft's chest. He didn't look up, afraid what his face might reveal, and waited with bated breath for his uncle's response.

“Not now, no, but very soon.”

Again, Mycroft could do nothing but nod, the rest of his body frozen. Torn between relief and grief, as his mind analysed all alternative outcomes that could follow, searching for a way out. And coming up empty-handed.

But he would have time; Mycroft calmed himself. Time to say goodbye properly, time to apologise, to explain. Time to make it – to make them – count.

Time. The constant variable in his life upon which everything seemed to depend. And the one thing he'd never had.

Without a warning, the doors to the dining room opened and jostled Mycroft out of his thoughts. A woman, just a few years younger than Mycroft, entered, her dark green dress flowing behind her. It was cut close and yet allowed room for fast movement, quite unlike current fashion. An air of rebellion surrounded her.

"Gentlemen. Father,” the woman greeted, curtseyed and sat to Sir Ledford's right.

"May I introduce my daughter, Anthea Ledford,” Nicolas said, gaze focused on Mycroft. Both his father and uncle knew her then, and Mycroft concluded that she must have been here since the beginning.

Her face woke a familiar memory and distracted Mycroft from what had just occurred. He latched onto it like a lifeline and within seconds, he was able to recall the event. Pushing everything else to the back of his mind, he let the memory resurface again.

They had passed each other in the gardens once, while Mycroft had cut through the rose beet to reach the conference room in time. Startled by his appearance, she'd almost knocked into him.

"We have made acquaintance already, I believe." Mycroft said, voice steady and face calm. The flawlessly crafted mask back in place.

She smiled slightly, the weak twitch of her lips barely noticeable. "Yes, indeed. It is a pleasure, Sir."

Pondering her appearance, all his thoughts concentrated on deducing her, Mycroft turned to Sir Ledford. "May I enquire as to why she accompanied you all the way up here?"

Anthea's lips twitched again and her eyes twinkled in amusement as she answered before her father had a chance to reply. "Curiosity, Sir."

"A boring old castle?” Mycroft challenged, a bit taken aback by her violation of etiquette. “I can imagine a more spectacular place. London is quite thrilling and entertaining already, is it not?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft saw Nicolas pointedly focusing all his attention on his plate, as he dug into his dessert with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary. Interesting.

"For the common minded, perhaps." Anthea replied, mustering Mycroft intently. Her eyes had hardened and were challenging him to object.

Curiosity piqued, Mycroft tilted his head and held her intent gaze. "And you are not common?"

"Are you?"

Rebellious indeed, Mycroft thought, more amused than anything else. And just a bit impressed. The pain had ebbed to a throbbing somewhere in his chest, waiting.

It seemed Nicolas had not only passed on his temperament and self-esteem to his daughter, but encouraged it to flower and bloom. Most interesting, indeed.

The rest of the meal passed by with idle chatter and the occasional discussion of the purpose of their stay. Mycroft avoided being part of it as much as possible, instead focusing on finishing the remains of his main course. Cold as it was now. It was only fitting, really, since it resembled the ice that had wound its way back around his heart. The excitement of Ms Ledford's arrival abated bit by bit, leaving him hollow.

In the end, both his uncle and Mr. Ledford agreed upon the extension of their stay in Greenwoods Castle for another month, placing their departure in the middle of April. Mycroft listened and agreed, knowing he didn't have much of a choice either way.

When the night had settled and the men had retired to the parlour to continue their conversation in front of the fire with a glass in hand, Mycroft slipped out the door to the terrace. Arms propped up on the railing of the balcony, he stared into the dark. Trying his best not to think, and failing.

"It is not my intention to offend you in any way, but may I be so bold as to ask about your marital status?" he asked after a few minutes without moving his head.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Anthea emerge from the shadows. Unfazed at having been caught she stepped into the light of the door and leaned onto the railing.

“You may, Sir. The question is whether you will.”

“A lady of your age is commonly married. But that you took it upon yourself to join your father in his travels says otherwise about you.”

“As I said, I am not common.”

“So you said,” Mycroft agreed. Shifting so his elbow rested on the cold stone beneath his fingers, he turned to face her. “What makes you think that I myself am equally exceptional?”

She looked at him, her gaze hard and piercing and unlike that of any other woman he'd ever encountered. When she spoke, it was with such sincerity and sadness, that Mycroft - for one moment, a fraction of a second - believed that she truly understood.

“It is extraordinary that, when offered the reign over the British Empire, a man would look anything but delighted, do you not agree? How uncommon indeed, should his eyes be clouded by the deepest and eldest sorrow instead.”

That night, sleep failed to come, and Mycroft tossed and turned for hours, before eventually getting up again. In the dim candlelight he filled sheet after sheet with the elegant curves of his handwriting, carefully explaining in detail what he needed.

 

 

 

> _My dearest brother,_  
>  _As you are probably well aware, father and I will return later than initially anticipated. Should you find yourself in need of my assistance, however, don't hesitate to call upon me, however dire the circumstances._  
>  _Now, before you frown at this uncommon brotherly affection and burn the letter in the nearest fire, please listen to what I am asking of you. Should you be able to comply with my wishes, be assured that I am in your debt. A rather attractive prospect, might I suggest._  
>  _Surely, you' have already noticed the ring enclosed with the letter. I ask you to find a method to dye the ring black without damaging it. It is a precaution I must take, meant to deceive a potential thief concerning its value. Therefore, the more ordinary it looks the better._  
>  _Should you still doubt the appeal of my request, treat it as a challenge to entertain that extraordinary brain of yours. I have the utmost faith in your abilities._
> 
> _Your desperate brother,_  
>  _Mycroft_

 

When he'd finished, Mycroft unclasped the chain around his neck and put it together with the ring it held into the envelope, sealed it and went back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Public railway transport does exist since about 1840. Whether there was actually a railway track that covered part of the distance between London and Edinburgh, I don't know. But their journey would have been much, much longer, had they travelling by carriage alone. 
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated :)


	3. As close as we'll ever be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exams are over (thank god), the summer is ahead and I've got no serious responsibilities for a couple of months. One should think I get _more_ writing done (and not less), but apparently, pressure still is one of the best motivators...
> 
> This is the last chapter of part four of _Out of Time_ and concludes the first story arc of this series. Change is undeniably to come and the road that lies ahead will be unpleasant and rough. But first, let there be fluff! (and angst, too, but psst).
> 
> Huge, enormous THANKS to [ivefoundmygoldfish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish) who beta-read again, even though their life was busy enough without additional work!

 

 

  
_"We were not lovers, we were love."  
_ \- Jeanette Winterson

 

_(2 months later)_

_April_

 

The sun had barely disappeared behind the rooftops of the city when the familiar knocking echoed in the small flat. Greg shot up from where he'd sat perched on the bed, not minding the loose sheets that escaped his latest case files. They could wait, he decided, while that gorgeous person standing on the other side of the door most certainly couldn't. Or at least, Greg didn't want to wait even a second longer. Had he not caught his right foot on the corner of the carpet gracing the floor of the hallway, he might just have succeeded.

When Greg finally opened the door, silver hair dishevelled but with a huge grin on his face, he was met by Mycroft's bemused and slightly concerned face. He had without a doubt heard the incident. Trying not to blush, Greg studied the face he hadn't seen for far too long and was surprised to find worried lines creasing Mycroft's forehead. Or was it uncertainty? Greg wasn't sure, since Mycroft's face was still partly hidden by the hood of his unostentatious coat he wore to travel unnoticed.

Deciding to explore that later, Greg grabbed hold of Mycroft's hand and pulled him into the flat. The door had barely swung close before he welcomed his lover with an enthusiastic embrace and a deep kiss. They hadn't seen each other for nearly two months, with Mycroft out in the country and Greg caught up in a string of murders, and both were more than relieved their parting was finally over. The world was too cold, the people too lifeless and their lives too loveless without the other's presence.

Revelling in the warmth and solidarity of Greg’s body pressed against his, Mycroft could feel the strain of the past weeks fall away, the tension in his shoulders easing. Drawing back slightly without letting go, he slipped out of his coat and let it fall to the floor, before resuming their kiss. It deepened quickly, picking up in intensity as Mycroft buried his hands in Greg's silver hair and shuddered at his lover's equally exploring hands.

As soon as they pulled apart for air, Greg began planting soft kisses against Mycroft's skin, moving from his neck up to his ear. Eyes fluttering closed, Mycroft only clung tighter.

“God, I have missed you so much...”

“I know," Greg whimpered. With his nose buried in Mycroft's hair, he nuzzled his neck and drew in a shaky breath. "Me too."

Without parting, they slowly stumbled backwards through the door into the bedroom that also served as living room, hands roaming freely now. Mycroft's jacket was first to go, closely followed by his vest, which got acquainted with Greg's shirt soon after. When Greg's legs collided with the hard wood of the bed, he blindly reached behind him to brush the rest of the files aside, sending papers flying everywhere. Not that they paid it much attention.

That was, until a rather insistent rumble disrupted them and they both froze. From where he was lying underneath Mycroft, Greg gave him a confused look and to his great delight, the other man blushed. What a lovely shade of red.

"My apologies, I came here directly upon returning to London."

Greg laughed and pressed a quick kiss to Mycroft's nose before his eyes widened in amazement. "You skipped dinner at your home to come here earlier? Just to see me?"

"Of course."

It might not have been such a big thing if Mycroft were anyone else, but the food served at the Holmes mansion _was_ bloody fantastic. And Mycroft _had_ just returned from a very tiring journey.

"How noble, I feel flattered. However, I have plans for you tonight, for which strength is apparently essential. Thus, with your agreement, I will prepare a meal,” Greg said cheerfully and sat back up.

"Gregory, please, you need not bother yourself."

"Hush, it is my pleasure. Not going to cook though, your grace must make due with simple bread."

Before Mycroft could disagree further, Greg had sauntered past the two armchairs facing the fireplace and disappeared through the door to the small kitchen, picking his shirt up in the process. Alone, Mycroft took a closer look around the room. The heavy wooden wardrobe still stood at the end of the bed, covering most of the wall to the right of the door leading to the entrance hall. The fireplace to his left hadn't changed either, but Gregory's comfortable armchair had gained a companion. Although not new, the slightly larger, mismatched second armchair looked less worn. Gregory must have purchased it sometime during the two months of his absence, quite possibly to enable both of them to enjoy the fire without the brick wall digging into their backs when sitting on the bed.

Touched, Mycroft moved to join Gregory in the kitchen. Most of the space was taken up by a long wooden counter, cluttered with all sorts of utensils and an assortment of pans and pots hanging on the wall. Greg took a look into the metal pot on the iron cooker, frowned and instead opened the cupboard in search for the promised bread. Deciding to make himself useful, Mycroft took two plates from the shelf and set the square kitchen table.

They ate in relative silence, feet touching under the table, simply enjoying the peaceful quietness. There'd still be enough time to catch up later. For now they took their time studying each other, taking in every change they'd missed during the last two months and relishing the other's presence.

The lines under Gregory's eyes had deepened, Mycroft noted, no doubt due to little sleep and endless nights spent hunched over paperwork or roaming the dark, rainy London streets. His hair had gained a few more silver strands, just enough for him to notice after two months apart. He had ink on his right thumb and a faint smudge behind his ear where an itch had caused him to lay down the pen. Gregory's face, his body language, the soft look in his brown eyes resolved something in Mycroft, a hard knot that had been ever present since the day of his departure, while reminding him why he was here. Gregory felt so familiar, so reliable, Mycroft was torn between the urge to laugh, scream or cry. Instead, he just watched, and put off the inevitable for just a bit longer.

Greg, too, let his gaze absorb every little detail and took note of the wrinkles on Mycroft's forehead that had been overshadowed by his cloak earlier. Mycroft had been worried and still was, if Greg didn't misread the look in his eyes. And there was just a hint of sadness there as well when Mycroft thought Greg wasn't looking. Or maybe regret, Greg wasn't sure. But then again, Mycroft was nothing if not a master of his body and what it expressed. Not so much around Greg, more by choice than inability, as an expression of his trust. That Mycroft felt it necessary to hide it now was unsettling, but Greg decided to push it to the back of his mind. Mycroft would confide in him when he was ready.

Satisfied by the simple meal Greg had prepared, they soon relocated to the living room, where the fireplace crackled welcomingly. They'd pushed the two armchairs together, enabling Greg to lean on to Mycroft without the armrest digging too uncomfortably into his side. A blanket over their legs, feet drawn up under the cover, they watched the flames dance, casting shadows on the wall. It wasn't exactly a chilly night, but both men's attire was slightly too dressed down for the middle of May. Besides, it was undeniably romantic.

With half-lidded eyes and head resting on Mycroft's shoulder, Greg absently traced the ornamentation of the other man's white dress shirt. He could feel the faint pulsating of the younger man's heartbeat under his fingers, accompanied by the slow and gentle rise and fall of his chest. Letting his fingers travel over Mycroft’s stomach, up to his chest and down his arms, Greg sighed softly. He'd missed the solid warmth of Mycroft's body. It never failed to ground him when the world span too fast and he was close to losing his grip.

In a sudden rush of need, Greg clutched the fabric of Mycroft's shirt in his hand, as if fearing it might not be real at all or disappear any moment.

"I am deeply sorry that I left with nothing but a letter to explain my absence," Mycroft apologised quietly, having noted the motion.

"Must have been really important, since you have been gone for longer than anticipated," Greg said, playful reproach in his voice. Mycroft leaving the city wasn't uncommon, but it was true they'd never gone without seeing each other for such a long time. Greg understood, though, and would never hold it against him. Nevertheless, that didn't keep him from missing the man and worrying about his well-being. Only Sherlock's brief mentions of his brother – coloured with insults as they were – had kept his mind at ease. Or at least it had helped ease his fears, while his longing only increased.

Mycroft stiffened immediately. A dry "Quite" was all he said, before pulling back his arm from where it had rested around Greg's shoulder.

Bewildered, Greg looked up, not understanding the other man's reaction. Mycroft's normally immaculate hair was tousled from when Greg had run his hand through earlier, but his face was cold. The mask Greg hated so much keeping him out. Only with all of his willpower, Greg managed to refrain from reaching out to smooth the lines on his lover's beautiful face, and instead sat up straight.

"If you cannot talk about it, I understand. I know your work is significant and secret. Just..." Greg sighed, defeated.

"That is not the problem. I do trust you," Mycroft mumbled quietly, not meeting his gaze. This was it, the very moment he'd dreaded and avoided for far too long tonight. It was time.

"The day before my departure,” Mycroft began, “a letter arrived demanding my father and I travel to Edinburgh as soon as possible. It did not provide detailed information concerning the reason, but I was able to guess what would await me. I fear my concerns were confirmed."

Mycroft briefly closed his eyes, before taking a deep breath and turning to Gregory. Blue eyes met brown, the love he saw reflected giving him the strength to continue.

"You realise that the position of Queen or King is more a representing position than one of power, yes?"

Greg frowned. "You mean, the true decisions are made by someone else?"

"Exactly. Thereby, politics cannot be actively influenced by people of wealth or of malicious intention, for the true ruler is known to only a handful of people."

"And you are one of them." Greg's fingers found Mycroft's on the armrest and let them draw calming patterns on his lover's hand.

"Moreover, I am related to them. My uncle has been assigned said duties by his father, who has in turn been trained by his own father."

A dark premonition made Greg shudder and his heart rate increased in speed. "That does not explain why you have been to Edinburgh."

Mycroft nodded, lips pressed together as if trying to hold back what he so desperately wanted to say. Eventually, he turned his hands and laced his fingers with those of his lover. When he spoke, his words were carefully chosen.

"Gregory, you must understand that my uncle has been diagnosed infertile at a very young age and therefore, does not have an heir." His gaze dropped to their hands, unable to watch while understanding slowly darkened Gregory's eyes. "From the day I was born,” Mycroft continued, “it was clear that I would one day follow in his footsteps. My entire childhood has been strictly organised and designed to prepare me for that day, and I have waited ever since I have come off age."

"And that day...” Greg swallowed past the lump in his throat. “It arrived in Edinburgh, did it not?"

Mycroft nodded mutely. "My uncle was on a business trip when his heart failed him. He is alive, but it has become clear that he will not be able to fulfil his duties much longer."

"So you were summoned to be appointed as his successor."

Gaze still focused on their joined hands, Mycroft sighed, defeated. "Not yet, but I expect to hear from the Queen by the end of next month," he admitted and gripped Gregory's hands tighter.

Barely a month, that's all they had left. About 30 days, if they were lucky. With the knowledge every meeting could be their last constantly lingering at the back of their minds. Pervading, hurting. Slow and painful. How could he do that to Gregory - the man he loved above anyone else - when it had been his burden to carry from the very beginning? How could he have let this relationship flourish when he knew from the start how it would inevitably end?

Unaware of those thoughts raging through his lover's head, Greg just looked at Mycroft, eyes wide as he tried to process what had just been said. A shadow fell upon his eyes, hurt and denial clear and sharp, as Greg realised. When he spoke, face hard, his voice was cold and reserved. "Do you mean to end our association?"

Unable to hold his gaze, Mycroft didn't look up, too afraid to face the emotions in Gregory's eyes. "As I said, it is a position of incredible power and dangerous to obtain and execute," he explained slowly, voice quiet and hesitant, "therefore, a group of guards will be appointed with my protection night and day, and –"

"Mycroft,” Gregory cut him off, this time louder and with a hint of anger. “Have you come here tonight with the intention to end our relationship?!"

The worry lines, the sadness in his eyes, it all made sense now. When Mycroft just continued to stare at their interlaced fingers, Greg yanked his own free. Mycroft's hands were too warm, too familiar, for him to think clearly. The last time they'd met, those hands had held him close and guided him as they danced without music. Sock-clad feet on thick carpet and Mycroft's comforting warmth surrounding him.

They hadn't had enough time. It didn't seem fair. Why couldn't they have more time?

Mycroft looked up then, eyes pleading. "I fear there is no alternative way. It would not be fair to bind you to a lost cause." He reached for his lover's hands again, needing him to understand. Needing him to see. But Gregory jerked back and sprang to his feet, eyes blazing and hard.

"I can wait, _no_ , I am willing to wait! Time is relative."

"You would be alone for an indefinite time. In fact, the chances are slim that an opportunity to meet again would ever present itself."

Greg, who'd started to pace, stopped and whirled around. "But you cannot be sure."

"It would not be fair!" Not to you. The man who's risked everything, because he recognised potential where others saw a big-headed know-it-all who fancied himself a detective. The man who uncovered that detective's brother's heart, while everyone else still doubted his humanity. You deserve so much better, Gregory. You deserve everything.

Warm hands on his knees made Mycroft look straight into Gregory's brown eyes. He'd crouched down in front of his armchair, and Mycroft automatically leaned forward. There was no anger in those eyes, just sorrow and the tiredness of someone who'd fought too long.

"Is it fair to you then?" Greg whispered, blinking away tears of frustration and grief, and Mycroft knew then that he couldn't do it.

Abandoning the armchair, he slid forward and down to the ground beside Gregory, who wrapped his arms around him immediately. Mycroft returned the hug and buried his nose in his lover's neck. They remained like that for a while, desperately clinging to one other. Just listening to each other's breathing.

After what felt like an eternity, Mycroft pulled back slightly until their foreheads were touching, eyes closed. “I have something for you. It was meant to be a sign of gratitude for what you have done for me. A reminder of the best of times.” Mycroft's hand found Gregory's face, gently caressing his cheek. “You saved me, Gregory.”

The ring was cool between his fingers as Mycroft tugged it free from where it rested under his linen shirt. Sherlock had excelled all expectations. Not only was the ring now of a tarnished dark-grey colour, but the three diamonds were completely unrecognisable. The surface itself was slightly rough to the touch, like stone that had been polished by the sea and deposited on the shore too soon to be be fully burnished. Despite the visible change, however, the ring hadn't lost any of its value.

After carefully unclasping the chain and sliding the band free, Mycroft let it rest in the hollow of his palm, unsure how to continue. What had been supposed to be a parting gift now had the potential to be something much more, with a far deeper meaning. A promise never to be spoken aloud.

Gregory's eyes widened as Mycroft reached for his hand, gently prying his fingers open and depositing the ring in his palm. “This is my mother's engagement ring, altered by Sherlock's chemical skills to not lure in potential thieves and greedy eyes.” Mycroft carefully squeezed Gregory's hand closed, locking the band inside, and covered it with his own pale hands. “It is mine to give and I would very much like you to have it.”

It could never be a real engagement, but the gesture was just as heart-felt and held so much more than a simple expression of love and devotion. The ring was both _'I have loved you for so long_ ' and _'I will love you for the rest of my life'_. A promise to fight against the bonds that would soon rip them apart. And the assurance that should Gregory's life take a turn for the worse, the ring's value would make sure he'd be safe despite Mycroft's possible inability to help.

Greg stared at his hand, still caught between Mycroft's, mouth slightly open in shock and wonder.

A stab of insecurity and doubt made Mycroft's insides squirm. “I know it is not the same,” he stammered, unsure how to interpret Gregory's lack of response. “It can never be, but I hoped that...the gesture at least -”

“Yes,” Greg whispered, a huge smile spreading over his face. “God, yes!” He flung his arms around Mycroft's neck and captured his lips in a deep kiss, conveying what could not be put into words. Mycroft clung tight, relieved and happy, despite what laid ahead.

 _Yes_. The answer to a question that would never be asked, but understood nonetheless. And that was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you awesome people who stick with me and this story despite the weird posting schedule (let's face it, there's never been one)! You never fail to make my day and keep the words flowing ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> Still not sure about the time this is set in. It's sort of a mix between the Regency and Victorian era, so maybe somewhere between 1820 - 1840? Please correct me if I'm wrong, I have very little knowledge of English history.


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